


From Ashes

by thirtypercent



Series: Something Ventured [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/pseuds/thirtypercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes his way home.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/799527">Pyrrhic Victory</a>, but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Provocatrixxx and Interrosand for the eagle eyes and excellent ideas, as always. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eighteen days later, he kills the sniper who had sights on John. He meant to shoot the man once, cleanly, through the head, but instead he fires until the magazine is empty, even then squeezing the trigger compulsively as he pants for breath._  

The next day, Sherlock throws himself off the roof of St. Bart’s.

****

Five days later, he stands in a graveyard and watches John mourn his meaningless tombstone.

****

Eighteen days later, he kills the sniper who had sights on John. He meant to shoot the man once, cleanly, through the head, but instead he fires until the magazine is empty, even then squeezing the trigger compulsively as he pants for breath.

****

Ninety-three days later, he’s stabbed in Argentina when a local hitman goes after the informant he’s been leaning on for the last three weeks. He’s only collateral damage, and it’s just a glancing blow across his ribs, but it won’t stay closed and bleeds every time he moves. He creeps along the alleyways of the local almost-affluent neighborhood and identifies a doctor’s home by the landscaping. _Obvious_. He bribes the man to stitch him up, then runs before he can call the police or the very drug cartel he’d been investigating.

****

Three hundred sixty-six days later, Molly sends him an email with no subject, nothing but the line: “He needs you.” He sits in an internet cafe in Prague and reads those three words until his vision blurs and his finger shakes on the mouse. He deletes the message, and then his entire email account. He has others. But none Molly knows about.

****

Five hundred ninety-two days later, he contracts pneumonia in Latvia after too many days and nights sleeping on the street in sub-zero temperatures. His undercover operation with the local homeless population was worth it, though: he learns the location of the last of Moriarty’s loyal network. He steals amoxicillin from a local clinic, then goes to ground in a businessman’s second home for five days with water and granola bars and loses twelve pounds.

****

Six hundred fifty-eight days later, he kills his last target in Hong Kong -- Moriarty’s second in command, a man with cold eyes and a deceptively guileless smile. But not before he’s shot in the gut at close range with the snub-nosed, pathetically low-caliber pistol Moran kept in his boot. _Stupid, stupid._

****

He slumps to the ground in a pool of his own blood, sticky and too-warm as it leaks out around his fingers. Panting, he struggles onto his back with one arm clenched to his stomach, and fumbles in his coat pocket for his mobile.

****

He manages to free his phone and, fingers numb, texts his local contact: “999.” The nearest hospital: a twelve-minute drive from here under typical conditions, but with the current construction going on, perhaps as long as twenty-five or thirty. Unclear if he’d survive.

****

The numb coldness in his gut turns to white-hot pain, and he curls up on his side, head lolling to the concrete. He draws his phone up to his face, staring at the small screen. He has perhaps a minute before he loses consciousness. _Carefully, carefully_ he moves his thumb over the keys, smearing blood as he goes.

****

_001... 44... 020... 7..._

****

He dials John’s number with painstaking care, blinking heavily as the phone starts to ring.

****

_“Hello?”_

****

He breathes a sigh of relief.

****

_“Hello? Who is this?”_

****

He rubs his thumb over the screen as his vision starts to fade. He’s feeling too cold, now. It won’t be long.

****

_“Hello? Hello?”_

****

His eyes close. As the room spins into darkness, he’s almost certain he hears _“... Sherlock?”_

 

***

 

He doesn’t die, even though maybe he should.

****

He awakens in a hospital bed, the scent of antiseptic and despair heavy in the air. His contact must have come through -- the fees he’d owe the man would likely rival the GDP of a small country.

****

He struggles to lift his head, his fingers, anything, but he’s weighed down by medical paraphernalia and painkillers and exhaustion. He frowns at his IV, wishes he could reach his chart, at least -- see the date, his prognosis, how long he’ll be here. Instead he struggles to lift the sheet and inspect his injury.

****

Even small movements leave him shaking with fatigue, but finally he’s able to see thick bandages on the left side of his abdomen. It’s been three days at least. _One -- no, two -- surgeries. Abdominal wounds. Tricky._

****

He’d likely be here another two weeks, at least. He groans in frustration and curses the weaknesses of the human body. He stares up at the ceiling.

****

_It’s over._

****

His heart starts to pound.

****

_John._

****

It’s time to come home.

 

***

 

He leans against the window in John’s new (well, new to him) flat, watching Londoners hurry home ahead of dusk and the cold drizzle that threatens to become a downpour.

****

He rubs absently at the remnants of adhesive on his wrist where the IV had been attached. They hadn’t wanted to let him go, but he could be quite persuasive. Though, maintaining the pretense of health on his flight back from Hong Kong and journey through customs had been... challenging.

****

It’s early, just mid-afternoon, but John had worked the morning shift at the clinic and should be home any moment now. Sherlock hunches deeper into his hoodie and buries his hands in the pockets as a shiver overtakes him. The heat in this building really isn’t sufficient at all.

****

He hears John’s tread on the stairs and holds his breath.

****

_The sound of plastic brushing against the wall as he climbs the stairs, a pause on the landing as he rearranges his bags: he stopped at the Tesco’s on the corner._

****

_Footsteps slow and uneven, the extra beat of a cane. A muted curse as he drops his keys at the door: his limp is back, along with the hand tremor._

****

Finally the slide of the key in the lock, the creak of the opening door, John shuffling in and kicking the door shut behind him.

****

The abrupt silence as John catches sight of him.

****

Sherlock lets out the breath he’s been holding, and turns slowly. He clears his throat. His voice feels rusty with disuse. “John.”

****

The bags slip from John’s fingers and groceries scatter across the floor. _Tinned beans, bread, tea, milk, biscuits._

****

John’s face goes utterly blank. _More grey mixed with blond, eyes shadowed, not sleeping well. Nightmares._

****

John starts toward him, saying something, but Sherlock hears only buzzing in his ears as his eyes dart over John’s face and down his body.

****

_Shirt fairly new, but wrinkled. New shoes by the door (not John’s style at all, dusted with cat hair, clearly a gift), but the pair he’s wearing is at least three years old. New cufflinks, entirely different style than the shoes, also a gift, but not from his sister -- too posh. One side of the bed mussed, one coffee cup in the sink. Two failed relationships in the last year, not dating anyone presently, at least not seriously._

****

John’s yelling now, gesturing wildly as he draws closer, but still Sherlock can’t focus on the words.

****

_Missed a spot shaving this morning, out of shaving cream -- used bar soap instead. Forgot his umbrella today (left it by the door), got a flu shot (plaster just visible through the damp sleeve of his shirt), took the tube (couldn’t catch a cab in the rain)._

****

Then John’s hands are fisting in Sherlock’s hoodie, and his _scent_ is there, hitting Sherlock somewhere right in the chest. And then Sherlock’s stumbling forward, nearly collapsing into John, wrapping his arms around him and dropping his face into the crook of his neck, inhaling on a deep shudder.

****

John is gasping for breath, but shocked into silence, now. “Sherlock?” Then: “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

****

He pulls back and presses his hand to Sherlock’s forehead, brushing back sweaty hair as Sherlock shivers again.

****

“Are you sick?”

****

“Mm.” Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into John’s touch. _Unimportant_.

****

John slips into brusque professionalism, pressing his fingers under Sherlock’s jaw, then wrapping a hand around his wrist to press two fingers to his pulse.

****

It isn’t until Sherlock sways on his feet and John reflexively slips his arm under Sherlock’s shoulder to keep him upright that Sherlock flinches and hisses in pain.

****

John freezes and his eyes go dark. “What’s wrong with you?”

****

Before Sherlock can bat his hands away, John’s pulling up his hoodie and t-shirt with it, revealing a worn bandage and red, inflamed skin.

****

John runs his fingers over the bandage and Sherlock sucks in a breath. “Jesus, Sherlock, this is infected - you need to go to hospital.”

****

Sherlock grits his teeth. “No, no hospital. I was already there. I just... need antibiotics. You’re a doctor still, I presume... you can help me.”

****

John furrows his brow. “I’m not omnipotent. Come here.” He slips around to Sherlock’s uninjured side and moves him slowly toward the bedroom.

****

Sherlock’s galled to realise the room sways as they move, and he leans heavily on John. They reach the bed, and John eases him backward, then disappears into the bathroom, returning with a thermometer.

****

“I’m taking your temperature, and then I’m inspecting whatever injury this is, and _then_ I’m deciding whether or not you’re going to hospital.”

****

Sherlock grunts noncommittally, but eases himself backward on the bed, and doesn’t argue when John presses the thermometer into his mouth.

****

Meanwhile, John unzips his hoodie for him, easing it off his shoulders with care. When he shivers, John slides his warm hands down Sherlock’s arms. The touch feels shockingly good, and his eyes drift shut.

****

John’s hands tighten on his biceps. “ _Sherlock_.” His voice is barely a murmur.

****

The thermometer beeps, and John’s hands slip away.

****

Sherlock opens his eyes to watch John pluck the thermometer from his mouth, frowning at the readout before putting it aside. His fingers are careful as he eases the tape up and peels back the gauze.

****

His lips compress into a thin line. “Is that a bullet wound?”

****

Sherlock just scowls. _Obvious_.

****

John presses fingers around the wound, and sighs. “If you were any other patient, I’d be sending you to A&E right now.”

****

“No, John. Don’t. They... don’t know I’m alive.”

****

John’s eyes darken and his fingers tighten in Sherlock’s shirt. His voice is deceptively casual. “Well. Aren’t I lucky, then?”

****

Sherlock can read _a bit not good_ in John’s voice when he hears it. “John...” he swallows. “Please.”

****

John sighs without meeting his eyes.

****

“Fine. I’m going to the chemist’s. Don’t move.”

 

***

 

John’s heart pounds as he strides down the pavement, antibiotics and painkillers in hand. He’d honestly rather sprint, but he’s not sure if he should be drawing attention to himself right now. Is Mycroft watching? Or perhaps Sherlock’s ever-changing collection of nemeses?

****

Finally he’s back, climbing the stairs two at a time before he realises he didn’t even think to bring his cane. He glances down at his leg. _Fucking traitor._

****

He freezes at his front door, key in the lock, seized with the sudden fear that Sherlock might have scarpered in his absence. He takes a deep breath, then another. _Well. No point in standing out here._

****

He turns the key and opens the door, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him without looking toward the bedroom.

****

He strides into the kitchen, puts the kettle on, pours soup into a saucepan, and fills a glass with water before he even takes off his coat. He stands at the stove, staring blindly into the simmering liquid and thrumming his fingers along the counter.

****

Tea prepared, soup ladled into a bowl: he’s ready. _Okay, here we go._

****

He balances everything on a tea tray Mrs. Hudson had given him, but he’d never used before. He’d certainly never imagined this would be its fate. He walks cautiously toward the bedroom.

****

He realises he’s holding his breath as he steps over the threshold.

****

_There._ Sherlock, curled on his side, buried in blankets, eyes shut, looking impossibly fragile. He looks... well, awful.

****

John places the tray carefully on the nightstand, and turns to sit on the side of the bed. He rests his palm on Sherlock’s forehead. _Still hot, too hot._ His fingers slide into Sherlock’s sweaty curls of their own accord, pressing his hair away from his forehead.

****

“Sherlock.” His voice is hesitant.

****

“Mm.” Sherlock turns his face into John’s palm, but doesn’t open his eyes.

****

John moves his hand up to Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezes.. “Sherlock, you need to wake up, for just a few minutes.”

****

Sherlock’s eyes open slowly, hazy and unfocused. When they meet John’s gaze, his breath hitches. “ _John_.”

****

John licks his lips. “I’ve brought you medicine and food and tea, and you’re going to take all of it. Doctor’s orders.”

****

A frown knits Sherlock’s brow, but he struggles into a sitting position.

****

John hands him the glass of water and pills. “First things first.”

****

Sherlock takes his pills with uncharacteristic docility. He tries to slump down into the blankets again, but John keeps him propped up.

****

“Food now, then sleep.” He keeps his voice stern. “When did you last eat?”

****

“In hospital. It was foul.”

****

John sighs in exasperation. “You look like a bloody scarecrow. You’re eating this even if I have to force feed you myself.”

****

Sherlock scowls, but picks up his spoon and begins to eat. He won’t let John help him, even when he shivers violently enough to spill entire spoonfuls onto the tray. By the time he’s finished he’s shaking with exhaustion, and John wonders how in the world he made it here. Or who let him out of hospital.

****

He picks up the tea tray, and Sherlock collapses into the pillows, his eyes already drifting shut. John returns the tray to the kitchen and claims a chair, carrying it back to the bedroom and positioning it against the wall, facing the bed.

****

Antibiotics or no, John’s not about to leave Sherlock unattended with a questionably-healing gunshot wound and a fever.

****

He grabs a book from his nightstand and settles in to wait, gazing at Sherlock’s sleeping form with the book on his lap. He won’t be reading anytime soon.

 

***

 

Sherlock doesn’t stay still for long. He turns and mumbles in his sleep, but after a couple hours his breathing grows ragged and he starts to thrash against the blankets.

****

“John. _John!_ No! No, no no no.”

****

John leans forward and puts his hand over Sherlock’s, wrapping his fingers around his palm. “Sherlock, it’s okay.”

****

Sherlock jerks his hand back and his eyes snap open. He stares at John, eyes dark and unseeing, then grips John’s forearm with surprising strength, pulling him off-balance and half onto the bed before running searching fingers over John’s shoulders, the back of his head, the nape of his neck.

****

“Sherlock, it’s okay, you were dreaming.”

****

Sherlock’s still gasping for breath, but he stops his frantic exploration. His fingers come to rest on John’s arm, tightening in the fabric of his t-shirt.

****

His gaze meets John’s. His eyes are wide and dark. “I saw you get shot,” he whispers. “I couldn’t stop it.”

****

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” He matches Sherlock’s tone, voice barely a murmur in the dim afternoon light.

****

Sherlock’s gaze doesn’t shift, his face disbelieving. He looks... terrified. John lifts his hand to Sherlock’s face, running a thumb across his cheekbone.

****

“Sherlock... what happened to you?”

****

Sherlock is quiet for so long John thinks he won’t answer. But then: “I killed them all, John.”

****

“Killed who?”

****

His response is so quiet John almost misses it. “Anyone who would hurt you.”

****

John just blinks, stupidly. Sherlock’s still staring at him with wide eyes, breath coming heavy. And then he speaks again. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

****

John’s sudden anger has his voice coming out as a growl. “You will... _never, ever do that again_.”

****

His fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair, and he just, needs him to _stop talking_ , just _never say that again_ , and then he’s leaning forward and capturing Sherlock’s mouth in his.

****

Sherlock’s response is immediate, his hand fisting in the t-shirt at the small of John’s back, pulling him closer as he moans into John’s mouth.

****

_Oh... god yes_. He’s lost as their bodies touch and he wraps his hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck to hold him still as he sinks his tongue into that mouth.

****

_Love_ and _lust_ and _need_ spin through his blood and it's just so... _good_ it’s physically painful, a gaping wound in his chest as Sherlock sucks on his tongue and whimpers against him.

****

At first, need is sharp and desperate on his tongue, and he wants to bite, draw blood, bruise Sherlock’s lips, wrap his hand in his hair and pull him so close their teeth click.

****

But then Sherlock flinches when John’s hand runs over his injured side, and a sudden surge of protectiveness leaves him shaking. His hands gentle, and long minutes pass as the room grows dark around them, John’s fingers drifting over the line of Sherlock’s jaw, his neck, between his shoulder blades. He licks at Sherlock’s mouth and sucks on his bottom lip and explores his mouth.

****

Finally Sherlock starts to shiver, again, and John pulls back slightly to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s as they share the same air. He runs his thumb over the other man’s jaw. It takes a couple of tries to speak. “You need to sleep.”

****

Sherlock’s breath is ragged. “No, I don’t.” But he’s already shivering again, and struggling to keep his eyes open.

****

John runs his hand down Sherlock’s back as he watches his breathing slow and his eyes drift shut. He thinks he’s fallen asleep when Sherlock murmurs “ _stay with me_ ,” fingers catching in the hem of John’s t-shirt.

****

John swallows. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

***

 

John awakens slowly, disoriented, but with a strange sense of barely-suppressed euphoria sliding through his veins. He opens his eyes to an unblinking blue-green gaze he thought he’d never see again, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

****

_Sherlock. Jesus, Sherlock._

****

Sherlock’s fever seems to have broken, and though he’s still sweaty and looks absolutely haggard, his eyes are clear and sharp again, cool self-possession back in place. The night spent kissing as Sherlock clung to him seems completely unreal.

****

Abruptly aware of the proprietary way his arm is draped across Sherlock’s lean torso, John flinches and starts to pull back. “I’ll just -- I’ll make us a cuppa then?”

****

Sherlock’s hand darts out to grip his wrist. “John...” His eyes flick away, and then back. “Don’t leave.”

****

John’s mouth opens, but he can’t seem to force any sound out. A sudden surge of adrenaline has him turning his hand to grip Sherlock’s wrist instead. He thinks he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise, but he can’t seem to relax his grip.

****

“Sherlock, I’m not the one who--” he tries to catch his breath, and starts again. “I need you to understand something very, very, _very_ clearly.”

****

Sherlock watches him intently, but doesn’t speak.

****

“I don’t care... what happens, or who threatens me, or why, but... you can _never, ever_ do this to me again. Do you understand?”

****

Sherlock’s eyes are wide. “John, you would’ve died--”

****

“I don’t care!” He swallows and tries to steady his voice. “I would rather die... _ten times over_... than go through that again. Watching... ” he swallows again and his gaze drops. “Watching you die and just, going on...” his eyes meet Sherlock’s again. “I wouldn’t survive it again. Do you understand?”

****

Sherlock’s eyes are wide.

****

“I said _do you understand_?” John barely recognizes his own voice.

****

Sherlock nods. “Yes, John.”

****

“ _Good._ Good.” He releases Sherlock’s wrist with a hand gone shaky and drops back onto the pillow. He tries to steady his breath. “Because if you’d said no, I might’ve had to kill you right here.”

****

Sherlock stares at him in fascination. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice turns nonchalant. “That would be quite messy, and you’d lose your deposit.”

****

John huffs out a chuckle before he can stop himself. “I hate this flat anyway.”

****

Sherlock leans forward and runs a finger across John’s lower lip. His voice is barely a murmur, but it’s utterly certain. “Never again, John.”

****

John sighs, and brings his hand up to Sherlock’s face. “Never again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It seems his body has reoriented itself around John Watson, like a blade of grass leaning toward the sun._

 

Hazy morning light drifts through the small window of John’s flat, catching on the sharp lines of Sherlock’s profile, the curve of his neck, the tangle of his fingers in the duvet. He looks like he’s about to speak again, but the moment is broken when John’s phone buzzes to life on the bedside table.

  
John casts a glance at the clock. “Medication time.” He silences the alarm, then snags the half-full water glass next to it and passes it to Sherlock, along with his next dose of pills.

 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows as he takes the glass, but downs his pills without argument. His features soon take on a stubborn cast that’s all too familiar, though. “I need a shower.”

 

John takes the glass and sets it back on the bedside table as he thinks of Sherlock swaying on his feet the day before. He frowns. “I don’t think you’re ready for that, yet.”

 

Sherlock scowls. “You’ll help me.”

 

John’s thinks about the two of them in the shower and his heartbeat stutters, but he keeps his voice casual. “Well. I think I still have some waterproof dressings.” He rolls out of bed and stretches with studied nonchalance, muscles protesting the hours spent sitting at Sherlock’s bedside the afternoon before.

 

He heads toward the bathroom on unsteady feet, and rummages under the sink until he finds the medical supplies he hasn’t had cause to use in years. He washes his hands with practiced motions, scrubbing under his fingernails and up over his wrists with an ease born of experience.

 

Returning to the bedroom, fresh dressings and antibiotic ointment in hand, the sight of Sherlock in his bed, hair tousled, wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt and pants and a vaguely mutinous expression makes his stomach flip.

 

He’s seized with the urge to climb back into bed, press Sherlock into the mattress, and not let him go until he’s panting John’s name.

 

Instead, he swallows, and moves to the edge of the bed. He gestures to Sherlock to sit up. “Come on, then.”

 

Sherlock struggles into a sitting position and starts to tug at the hem of his shirt, but his stitches protest and he stops with a scowl, casting an expectant look toward John.

 

John’s heart rate picks up as he grips the hem of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls it over upraised arms. The sudden expanse of Sherlock’s pale skin and clearly outlined ribs is terrifyingly intimate, and he slides his hand up Sherlock’s spine and curls his thumb protectively over the nape of his neck before he’s even aware of it.

 

Sherlock looks up at him, pale eyes curious and all too perceptive. John lets his hand slip down to Sherlock’s ribcage, and he peels back the gauze with delicate fingers.

 

The wound already looks better than it had last night, though Sherlock still winces when he rubs ointment over the sutures. He pulls open the packaging on the new dressing and presses it carefully over Sherlock’s side, running his fingers along the adhesive. The steady beat of Sherlock’s heart is soothing under his palm, and he splays his fingers wide over his chest for a handful of beats.

 

He takes a deep breath as he stands and slides his arm around Sherlock’s torso. “Okay, up we go.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot nearly into his hairline, and he manages to look supercilious even sitting and half-naked. “Don’t baby me, John.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

They make it to the bathroom without incident, Sherlock growing steadier on his feet as they move.

 

John leaves Sherlock to brush his teeth while he gets the water started, holding his hand under the spray and casting sidelong glances in Sherlock’s direction to make sure he’s not about to keel over. He’s got one hand braced against the sink, but seems otherwise steady.

 

They swap, Sherlock moving towards the shower as John takes his turn at the sink, willing himself not to stare at Sherlock clad in nothing but pants and bandages.

 

And then... the pants are gone. Sherlock slips out of them with far more grace than he should be able to muster under the circumstances, and steps forward into the spray, sliding the curtain shut behind him.

 

“Oi, will you wait for me, please?”

 

“I’m fine, John. Stop worrying.” His voice is muffled by the spray.

 

John finishes up at the sink as fast as he can, stepping toward the shower in a rush, but then freezes outside the curtain.

 

He’s never showered with anyone without a fairly clear set of... expectations, but this is Sherlock, and normal social rules never seem to apply. He steels himself to be professional. He’s just helping Sherlock out with a shower, that’s all: gunshot wound, fever, stumbling around the flat. _Let’s not get too excited, here._

 

He nudges the curtain open, and his stomach flips at the sight before him. Sherlock’s back is to him, one arm propped against the tile as his head tips forward under the water. Sodden curls cling to his skull as water cascades down his neck and slides between his shoulderblades and down his spine.

 

Sherlock shifts, and casts a glance over his shoulder. “Why are you still dressed?”

 

John belatedly realises he’s been gawping, and closes his mouth through sheer force of will. “Right. Um.”

 

He shucks his t-shirt and pants with perfunctory movements, and prays Sherlock keeps his back to him, because there’s no way he’ll be able to hide his reaction for long.

 

 _Professional, professional._ He picks up a flannel and the soap with newfound determination, and lathers up. “All right, hold still.” He breathes a sigh of relief as his confident physician voice emerges and not the cracked tones of a teenage boy.

 

He runs the flannel down Sherlock’s spine, then up and over his left arm, then the right, leaving a trail of suds in his wake. Sherlock doesn’t make a sound, but he does take a deep breath of humid air as his head lists forward.

 

John clears his throat and casts about for a neutral topic. “So. The infection should be cleared up in the next couple of days, and in two weeks or so you should be feeling much more normal.”

 

Emboldened, John runs the flannel around Sherlock’s stomach, careful to keep his body from pressing up against the warm skin and planes of muscle in Sherlock’s back. Despite his best efforts, heat is pooling low in his groin at the sight of muscles playing under skin, and his fingers itch to grip Sherlock’s hips and pull him close.

 

He licks his lips and tries to conjure up something else to say. “You’re lucky, really. A wound like that, could’ve been much worse. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” He frowns at himself. _Really? Right as rain?_

 

He loses his nerve a bit, now, and decides the rest of Sherlock’s body can just as well rinse clean on its own. He picks up the shampoo and squirts some into his palm. He’s a little overzealous, apparently, shampoo overflowing his fingers. Oh well.

 

He doesn’t let himself hesitate, and vigorously rubs his hands together and slides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. “You know, abdominal wounds, they can be tricky. I once had a patient, had to have four surgeries just to --”

 

Sherlock groans his name on a rumble, head tipping backwards into John’s hands. “John.”

 

John clears his throat. “Yes?”

 

Sherlock turns around with no warning, soap suds sliding down his temples, and John’s hands slip to his shoulders. Sherlock’s eyes are dark. “ _Stop talking_.”

 

He crowds John up against the tile wall and cups his hands against his jaw, and then they’re kissing -- Sherlock’s mouth is hot and slick on his, and John can’t help but moan as his hands skitter helplessly over the water-slick skin of Sherlock’s back.

 

Sherlock groans and breaks the kiss to nuzzle at John’s neck, nipping at the skin behind his ear, licking at the tendon there. He slides a hand down John’s torso to grip his hip with near-bruising force.

 

John moans and his hips buck compulsively. His fingers slip up to Sherlock’s hair and grip tight as he fights for breath.

 

“ _God, Sherlock_.”

 

Sherlock moves his hand from John’s hip to wrap his fingers around his cock, giving it an experimental stroke, and John’s heart nearly stops.

 

He’s panting as if he’s just run a marathon, but he reaches down to grip Sherlock’s wrist. “Wait, careful -- your stitches.” Surely he deserves a place in heaven for this.

 

Sherlock tightens his hand and John sees stars as his cock throbs. Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble in his ear. “Are you sure? I don’t think this will take care of itself.”

 

“It’s fine. I can -- I can take care of it.”

 

Sherlock is silent for a beat, though his lips drift maddeningly along the shell of John’s ear. “Fine then. Go on.”

 

“What? No, I didn’t mean -- not right now....” but he’s already aching at the thought.

 

Sherlock slips his hand from John’s weakening grip, then takes hold of John’s fingers and wraps them around his own cock. His breath is hot and humid in John’s ear, voice a hoarse encouragement. “Go ahead, John.”

 

John groans and fists his hand around his cock and slides downward in a practiced motion, even before he realises he’s going to do it. He gasps at the sensation, and his hips buck.

 

The tile is cool against his back, the clouds of steam warm and damp against his skin. The fingers of his free hand scrabble at Sherlock’s back, desperately trying to pull him closer and avoid his injured side all at once. “ _Sherlock_.”

 

Sherlock drops his lips to nuzzle at the crook of John’s neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. And then he _growls_ as he trails his fingers down John’s stomach.

 

John’s breath comes out in a near-sob, and then, inhibition gone, he’s tightening his grip and stroking his cock in smooth, familiar motions. _Oh... god yes._ His free hand slips down Sherlock’s back to grip his arse, pulling him closer until Sherlock’s cock is pressing against his hip, hot and hard and slick, and he groans again.

 

Sherlock’s breath is heavy now. He slides a hand between John’s legs to fondle his balls, and John’s head hits the tile with a clunk. He’s moaning continuously now, and he can feel the hot, heavy pressure of an orgasm curling in the base of his spine as his hand moves slick and tight over his throbbing cock.

 

He fists a hand in Sherlock’s soaking curls with the last of his mental acuity and pulls him in for a messy kiss, not much more than the slick press of lips and tongue and panting breath.

 

Sherlock groans into the kiss and then John’s gone, nearly sobbing as his cock pulses under his hand and he clings to Sherlock, vision darkening and his whole body throbbing with pleasure.

 

He comes to his senses gradually, slowly becoming aware of Sherlock’s lips brushing over his temple and down the line of his jaw, murmuring his name. He forces his hand to relax its grip in Sherlock’s hair, and tries to steady his breath.

 

He means to say something sensible, but all that comes out is a low moan as he buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. The water’s growing cold and his knees are shaking -- now neither of them are steady on their feet.

 

He rubs his thumb against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.” He barely recognises his own voice, as rough as if he hasn’t used it in a week.

 

Sherlock’s eyes are dark and he gives no sign of having heard him, but he doesn’t protest when John turns off the water and guides him out of the shower on unsteady feet.

 

John snatches a towel from the wall and drapes it over Sherlock’s head and shoulders, then fumbles to dry his curls and slide the towel over his shoulders with jerky movements. Sherlock just glares, then plucks the towel from John’s nerveless grip and drops it on the floor. “John, please.”

 

John huffs out a laugh, and then slips an arm around Sherlock’s waist as they make their way to the bedroom, even though he’s the unsteady one now. But Sherlock’s warm skin under his fingertips is intoxicating, and he can’t help but turn to brush his lips against Sherlock’s shoulder as they move in tandem.

 

They reach the bedroom, and John tips Sherlock back onto the bed. Dripping curls spread across the pillow, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dark, lips parted as his breath comes fast and light: something tightens in John’s chest at the sight, and then he’s collapsing onto the bed next to Sherlock and leaning over him to sink his fingers in that hair and kissing him, deep and messy.

 

Sherlock moans his encouragement, his hand coming up to grip the nape of John’s neck.

 

John props himself up on an elbow, and reaches down to wrap a hand around Sherlock’s cock. He needs to see Sherlock’s face for this. The angle is different from he’s used to, but he slides his hand down the shaft, already slick from pre-come, and Sherlock’s muffled gasp is all he needs to hear.

 

Sherlock’s jaw goes slack, and a flush spreads across his cheeks. His eyes turn impossibly dark, pupils blown wide as his body goes tight and his cock throbs in John’s palm. His low groan is almost a growl John can feel in his chest, and he’s sure he’ll never, ever forget that sound as long as he lives.

 

John is panting, now. He teases his thumb over the slick head of Sherlock’s cock and keeps his fist loose as he slides down the shaft, wanting to make this last.

 

“John, _please_.” Sherlock sounds wrecked, and his hips buck even as he hisses in pain at the movement.

 

“Shh. Don’t move. _Let me_ \--” John hooks a knee over Sherlock’s thigh to keep him still, and then Sherlock’s fingers bite into the muscles of his back.

 

“ _John, please, more_ \--” Sherlock’s voice is as desperate as John has ever heard it.

 

John groans, and feels his own cock twitch again despite his own orgasm only minutes ago. He tightens his grip and strokes firmly from tip to base, and Sherlock gasps his name, his cock throbbing in John’s hand.

 

Sherlock’s breath is ragged in John’s ear. “ _John -- John. Oh, John._ ”

 

John can’t prevent his own shallow thrusts against Sherlock’s hip. “ _Sherlock_.”

 

Sherlock’s cock is growing thicker and hotter in his hand, and as John twists his grip to put more pressure on the head Sherlock nearly shouts, fingers tightening on John’s back with bruising force.

 

John presses his open mouth to Sherlock’s temple, damp with sweat, and groans. “ _God, yes, come on._ ” He’s never felt another person’s pleasure so intensely, can practically feel the orgasm building in his own spine as Sherlock breathes his name on a sob and goes silent as his body tightens and then his cock is pulsing, hot and wet, over John’s fingers.

 

John slows his strokes, then comes to a stop as Sherlock shudders and his muscles go lax. Suddenly feeling weak himself, he collapses onto the pillow next to Sherlock and drapes his arm across Sherlock’s torso.

 

He fights to regain his breath while Sherlock does the same.

 

“That. That was -- well. That was, uh -- good.” Sherlock sounds so dazed and completely unlike himself that John nearly laughs.

 

He presses his face to Sherlock’s bicep to hide his grin, breath slowing gradually. “Well put.”

 

***

 

It seems his body has reoriented itself around John Watson, like a blade of grass leaning toward the sun.

 

His chest tightens when John rolls off the bed and leaves the room, and doesn’t loosen until he returns with a wet flannel to clean them both up. _Ah yes. How chivalrous._

 

Flannel disposed of, John climbs back into bed and pulls the duvet up over both of them, turning on his side to face Sherlock. He reaches up to push a damp curl out of Sherlock’s eyes, fingers light and warm, and something hot twists in Sherlock’s chest.

 

It’s lowering, and humbling. It should horrify him, by all rights: nothing but sentiment in this room, right now, the two of them positively dripping with it. But instead all he wants to do is sink into John’s skin.

 

Sherlock curls toward him until his lips brush John’s collarbone and his forehead presses against his shoulder. He tastes John’s skin, the faint hint of soap and fresh sweat. He inhales deeply, startled to hear his own breath hitch.

 

John’s hand inches up Sherlock’s spine to feather lightly through his hair, as though unsure his touch is welcome. Sherlock can’t help sighing in pleasure, and John’s fingers grow bolder, sinking into his hair and pressing into his scalp.

 

A groan slips out of Sherlock’s mouth before he’s even aware of it, and he feels more than hears John’s answering chuckle.

 

As John continues to press into the muscles at the back of Sherlock’s skull, he feels like a marionette whose strings have been cut. _Extraordinary_.

 

Sherlock tries not to moan, and instead mumbles against John’s skin. “John. What have you done to me?” Even his words feel lazy, his voice emerging rough and deep.

 

John chuckles again, chest rising and falling in quick motions.

 

“Well. You’re injured, exhausted, we’ve just had sex, and now I’m giving you a neck massage. I’d say you’ve come over a bit human.”

 

“ _Human_.” He injects the word with as much scorn as he can, under the circumstances. It should feel like a curse, but instead it feels like a small weight in his hand. It feels like hope.

 

He slips an arm around John’s waist with muscles that have turned warm and liquid. He gives up the battle to keep his eyes open, and lets them fall shut with a sigh as he sinks heavily into John. “It’s not... terrible.”

 

John’s lips brush lightly over the top of his hair, and somehow Sherlock can feel the smile in the breath that gusts across his temple.

 

“Not bad at all.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to leave this as a single chapter, but then this one just came along and begged to be written. Thanks for reading!


End file.
